And so it begins.

In the midst of grey hours, I see it all.
Chambré honey, mirthful sight.
Twenty six seconds,
yet older than chaos.
Empyrean as the Rings of Neptune.
A billet-doux of words yet to be said,
of truth yet to be felt.
Gainsay, we do.
In the midst of haste and trance,
I see you.
And all of the crepuscular and light;
vehement and serene;
cosmic and ephemeral;
nebulas and dark matter;
colliding inside of me come to rest,
to the sound of your voice.

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